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My morning has been the morning from hell, guys. I’m talking first world problems since my alarm went off at 6:30am. I looked out the window and see that it’s snowing, so I take a two second shower, grab a sugar free Red Bull from the fridge and hit the road. Honestly, the snow wasn’t even that bad at the time that I left the parking lot, but that doesn’t matter. Snow is the cue for people to drive like total dickheads. The first few minutes in the car are stress free, aside from almost stabbing my eyeball out with eye liner (it’s one of those things I will just never learn: do not apply eye makeup while driving). I hit West Squantum Street and immediately start talking to myself about how bad this was going to suck.

Here’s the thing: I am totally understanding of the fact that when there is shitty weather, you have to leave earlier. Some people are assholes and don’t get that, then they give excuses like “Sorry I’m late, traffic was BRUTAL!”. Um, yeah, NO SHIT. It’s rush hour in Boston, what did you think was going to happen?! I left 35 minutes earlier than I usually leave, but this was no ordinary traffic. We are talking about traffic that starts in Quincy, and extends my entire commute. I should have known better at this point to bang a U-turn, suck it up and take elbows from elderly Asian women half my size on the T. But I’m a spoiled princess who is only happy in the morning if I avoid public transportation. Plus I wore Uggs today to keep my feet cozy and this slushy kind of snow goes right through Uggs (forever breaking the laws of business casual dress code). Here’s how I look at it: I don’t smoke butts and I’m not addicted to cocaine so I can spring the extra $25 bucks a week to drive into work. So I do.

Back to my nightmare: It took me a solid hour to get from my apartment near Hospital Hill to the bridge on Granite Avenue. People were getting out of their cars to see what was going on, yelling, beeping. Overall mayhem. At this point I called my boss to say I was 100% going to be late. Fifteen minutes later I was calling to say that not only would I 100% be late, I was going to be at least one hour late. Another half hour goes by and I haven’t even reached the intersection by Adams Village. I haven’t even crossed Gallivan, lights go from green to red about thirteen times before I see a space in between two cars, and turn around back towards Quincy. Smooth sailing. That is, smooth sailing until I reach Squantum Street. I get stuck another 15 minutes and start to feel my eyes watering. Dead seriously, I am that ridiculous. I pick up my phone and do what every Millenial probably does when life gets remotely hard: I call my mom at work. I am sniffling. Legit. I am a 5 year old trapped in a 25 year old’s body. She actually feels bad for me and tells me to call her when I am safely on the T. I love my mama. I see a “Do not enter” street, I pull out of traffic and ignore the sign, taking back roads all the way to Newport. Finally I am back at square one: my parking lot. I pull out my umbrella. It breaks. My Uggs are soaked through by the time I reach the train. I somehow lose grip and drop my sugar free Red Bull. I hear a train coming, I run to the turnstyle. I scan my Charlie Card: invalid. I look to the T worker for help. She tells me to piggy back (not literally) some guy to get through. I do that as the train is pulling away. The guy looks like he wants to punch me in the face as a single tear runs down my wind burned face. My Uggs squeak as I slowly make my way down the stairs at Quincy Center. The Stephen Hawking voice robot comes over the intercom and announces that the next train to Alewife would arrive in 8 minutes. I sit, defeated.

Once on the train, I look at the time: 9:30am. I was supposed to be at work at 8:30. I complain on my status. Chet (if you’re from Quincy, you know him) comments “Not going anywhere for a while? Grab a Snickers!”. Had he not written that, I would not have laughed, and I would have asked the kind woman next to me to stab me repeatedly with her knitting needle. I arrive at Downtown Crossing at roughly 9:50am. I head towards the Orange Line. Uggs still squeaking, and sometimes squishing from the water inside of them. Once up the stairs and on the Orange Line platform, my mind wanders to suicide again and I think about swan diving onto the third rail as the train approaches. A women plays a soothing song on a harp and I decide I want to live. I give her a dollar, then get on my train.

As I sit at my desk, fucking finally, hearing from coworkers that there was flooding at Morrissey Blvd causing all the traffic, I start to reflect on the little things in life. It truly is the little things in life that make you want to jump out of a window. And the little things like a woman who looks like she smells at Downtown Crossing playing a harp that make you not jump out a window. Here’s to getting through another day, you guys.

The little thing that made me crack a smile when I first got to work was this: